


A Sword and A Song

by Theladyknight23



Series: Shining Stanzas [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brief selections of Geralt's POV from Glorious Ballads, Canon Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/F, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, really just because I wanted a chance to write more with these two, will likely not make sense if you have not read the first part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theladyknight23/pseuds/Theladyknight23
Summary: She wore a fine dress, one far too fine for such a country tavern. The embroidered neckline dipped, revealing the light freckles dusting her collarbones. There was no hesitation in her voice, and only the faintest hints of fear when she named Geralt a Witcher. She seemed to possess a dangerous lack of self-preservation, following Geralt out. A punch to the gut, and still she followed.Jaskier.Her name sounded like music on her tongue.The Path wasn’t so quiet anymore.-----Brief selections from Geralt's perspective from 'The Glorious Ballads of Julianna Adela Pankratz, Viscountess de Lettenhove aka the Great Bard Jaskier'
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Shining Stanzas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887478
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

The Path was quiet.

Geralt spent years beating the dirt to dust, crossing the continent to protect those that would scorn her. She carried swords of both silver and steel, for monsters lurked both in deep bogs and city streets. They had taken her, changed her, and tasked her with this purpose. A monster to fight monsters. A sword in her hand, a medallion hanging about her neck. The wolf, a reassuring weight on her chest, declaring who she was. That weight felt heavier sometimes. A chain holding her fast. Scars crossed her face, reminders of those she had killed before they could kill her.

She slew the beasts and moved on. No one liked a Witcher that lingered.

The Path was lonely, but Witchers did not get lonely.

She had Roach, a good horse, well suited to this life. Roach was irritable with grooms, glaring out at the world. She only liked Geralt, and Geralt took quiet pride in this.

The Path was lonely, quiet, and unchanging.

Glares peering through windows, sharp voices, work for her silver sword. Work for her steel. Pitiful coin and she was back on the road, on to the next beast. She was unwelcome but needed, and they never failed to remind her of that.

“Come on, don’t want to keep a woman with…bread in her chemise waiting.”

This was something new.

Flashing blue eyes and lightly curling auburn hair, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. The woman carried a well-loved lute, handling it with the ease and reverence of an old friend. Geralt knew that effortlessness, it was the same she felt with her swords.

She wore a fine dress, one far too fine for such a country tavern. The embroidered neckline dipped, revealing the light freckles dusting her collarbones. There was no hesitation in her voice, and only the faintest hints of fear when she named Geralt a Witcher. She seemed to possess a dangerous lack of self-preservation, following Geralt out. A punch to the gut, and still she followed.

 _Jaskier_.

Her name sounded like music on her tongue.

The Path wasn’t so quiet anymore.

…….

Geralt had long since gotten used to the feel of potions humming painfully through her veins. She was well familiar with the adrenaline of the fight, the searing ache of injuries that would heal soon enough. She knew death, on the faces of those she arrived too late to save, and delivered with her own blades.

She had never known the horror that pounded through her when she caught Jaskier’s scent, spiked sharp with fear, beneath the musty stink of the Lernaean Hydra.

There she was, too-pale, clutching a weeping child in her arms. Her beaming, bright eyes and smiling mouth twisted in terror. The Hydra was distracted by the sudden presence of the bard, but so was Geralt. It was all she could do to keep her attention on the twisting heads, her senses straining toward Jaskier’s frantic heartbeat. Jaskier, the idiot, was a fool that was going to get them all killed. Geralt wanted to scream at her, to seize the bard and hold her close, keep her safe. Geralt settled for launching herself at the beast, fighting through the pain when one of its fucking pincers caught her. She could hear Jaskier’s faint hums, a shaky rendition of a Redanian lullaby offered to the boy. She could also hear the way the bard’s heart continued to thrum, even as she attempted to comfort the child. Geralt drove her sword through the beast, slicing it almost in half.

When Jaskier approached, Geralt’s anger, her fear, her knowledge of just how close she had come to losing the only spark in her life, manifested in words that cut the bard as sure as any knife.

Jaskier was shaking, the boy was weeping and Geralt was furious with the world. With a world that took such beauty and innocence and threw monsters at it.

“We need to get the boy back.”

Geralt couldn’t bear to look at Jaskier anymore, her foolish, spirited bard and her blue dress made for ballrooms. That dress was tattered now. It was one of Jaskier’s favourites. She would have to burn it, there was no saving it now.

If Geralt had been a beat slower she could have lost this.

Geralt stalked away, forcing her thoughts to her next steps, her coin, a bandage on her shoulder.

She did not listen to Jaskier make a pithy remark to the child before following.

She did not listen to the way Jaskier’s heart continued to pound a frantic beat, all the way back to the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still don't know half as much canon as I should


	2. Chapter 2

Humans did not touch Witchers.

Particularly Witchers that screamed in their faces. Witchers that derided and humiliated them.

Witchers that were still haunted by the image of teeth tearing through graceful limbs, clever fingers and sharp grins. Witchers still thrumming with the feeling of potions draining from their veins, still tight with the feel of the fight.

But when Jaskier offered, Geralt had no words to say no. To warn the bard to stay away. She wanted this closeness. Jaskier would be real if she was close, her quick fingers gently wiping away the blood. Geralt needed her to be real, a bright flicker to drown out the horrors still clinging to Geralt’s skin, lurking in Geralt’s mind.

If Jaskier touched her then Geralt would be real. She would be more than a sword and medallion. She would be another person worthy of care and attention. Worthy of a soft hand and a sympathetic smile.

Geralt didn’t have the words to articulate this need, so she used her old weapons. Grunts, hums and curses. Jaskier seemed to know what she needed anyways. The bard made jokes about not knowing what she was doing, but like anything the bard did, she moved with conviction. Her hands never hesitated as they swept across Geralt’s shoulders, carefully applying the bandage. Jaskier’s eyes danced, taking in her scars. She leaned close, until all Geralt could smell was her. Her scent was a mess of dried sweat, hydra spit, the boy’s tears and exhaustion. Underneath it all, her own lively, warm, foolish and sharp scent persisted. The smell that said _Jaskier_.

Geralt leaned closer.

When the clothing arrived Jaskier leaped eagerly to her feet, and immediately hurried to change. She returned from the dark corner in a worn woollen dress. It was a dull brown colour that Jaskier would never choose for herself, a far cry from the vibrant colours she loved to wrap herself in. But her blue eyes still gleamed.

Rolling up her sleeves, Jaskier settled beside Geralt and took up a wet cloth.

People clutched their children closer when they spotted Witchers. They kept their hands on their swords. They slammed doors. They delivered their reports quickly, refusing eye contact.

Sighing delightedly, Jaskier arced her neck, scrubbing away the filth of the day. She looked to Geralt and grinned.

This was intimacy and trust, Geralt thought. This was vulnerability offered and shared.

Later, when Roach was rubbed down and they had both eaten their full, Jaskier leaned back against Geralt. It was warm, and soft, and so unexpected Geralt’s heart stuttered in her chest. She wanted to articulate to Jaskier the significance of this touch.

“I’m glad you didn’t die,” felt hollow on her tongue, a faint echo of the truth.

The bard laughed, nestling closer, relying on Geralt to be the steadying presence at her back, to hold her up. Geralt wanted this.

“Never do that again.”

This was closer, but not enough.

Her hand, which wielded her sword with such certainty and purpose, warily settled on the bard’s leg. For a brief instant, she held it there, feeling the warmth, the connection. It was too much. She ripped the hand away.

She had held humans before. Always briefly, and with purpose. A child that wept at the sight of her, quickly handed over to their mother. Women paid to service her for a night. A wounded man’s arm slung across her shoulder for the stumble to town. The corpse of a young girl in her arms, face covered with a sheet.

Jaskier fell asleep pressed against her side.

Geralt carefully extracted herself from under the bard, leaning her against the wooden wall. She hurried to extract the bard’s bedroll from her bursting bag, laying it out over a thin dusting of hay. When she turned back, Jaskier was slowly blinking, a confused, sleepy expression on her face.

Geralt offered her hand and Jaskier took it.

It was only when the bard was settled, her breathing once again slow and steady, that Geralt allowed herself to close her eyes, and sleep overtook her.

…..

Geralt knew Jaskier was a bard. She had been playing the day they met, the day Jaskier forced her way into Geralt’s life. Geralt, intent on her ale, her food and returning to Roach, had paid little attention to the music. Geralt had heard her play since, plucking away as she walked, or through the floorboards from their room, as Jaskier sang to the evening crowds in the tavern below.

Staring at Jaskier now, she realized she had never truly known what that meant.

Jaskier was a swirling figure in the centre of the room, beaming, bright and loud. Every eye was caught on the bard, her voice golden and clear. The crowd trembled when she sang of a horrific griffin, hanging on to her every word. She was a force, blue eyes flashing, and yellow skirts whirling, clever fingers quick over her lute strings. She sang of heartbreak and tears sparked. Her voice dropped low, and they leaned forward, desperate to get closer to that sound.

To Jaskier.

Jaskier, who called Geralt, ‘dear,’ and leaned into Geralt’s touch. Jaskier, who threw herself at men twice her size, vibrating with rage for Geralt.

For this moment, in this crowd, the singing bard belonged to everyone. She offered endless smiles and winks. But Geralt knew that when the song ended, and the crowd went home, Jaskier would still be hers.

Geralt stood in the doorway of the tavern, covered in drowner muck, scalp aching, and listened. Jaskier would return to her soon enough.

Spotting the Witcher, Jaskier had a beaming grin just for her. She quickly took charge, ushering Geralt upstairs and into a bath. When Geralt’s own attempts failed, she washed the gunk from Geralt’s hair.

The mistress of the tavern could come and cut Geralt’s hair. But Geralt didn’t trust anyone else with a weapon so close to her face.

She wanted Jaskier that close. Wanted Jaskier to trail her clever fingers through her hair.

Beauty was not for Witchers. Geralt wore her hair long because it was easier, something she could tie up and forget about. She was not Jaskier, with her complicated braids, her ribbons and hairpieces.

The short hair felt lighter, her neck exposed. Geralt looked down at her reflection, Jaskier’s words echoing in her ears.

“It looks good.”

It felt right. She felt like herself, more than herself.

It brought out her cheekbones, whatever that meant.

It would be a pain to keep up, but it came with a promise. A promise of a future of sitting in other inns, while Jaskier flitted behind her, keeping her hair shorn short. Geralt smiled at the thought.

Jaskier’s cheeks glowed red, pulse-quickening as if suddenly set with a fever. It was possible, the Path was hard and Jaskier had received a head injury recently. Jaskier waved Geralt’s concern away, escaping out the door with a babble of words. Geralt could hear her leaning for a moment, heart beating frantically just outside the door, before throwing herself down into the rush of the crowd. Geralt frowned, she would have to check on the bard when she returned.

Geralt turned back to the bucket of water.

She wasn’t vain like Jaskier, she didn’t need fine clothes or ribbons. She had a scar cutting across one eye, another slicing up her cheek. She was not beautiful. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling its short spikes. Her mouth twisted into a soft smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by Mr. Darcy's hand flex
> 
> "Hunched over at the table in the far corner, glaring down at her ale, was the most beautiful being Jaskier had ever seen. She had sharp features and broad shoulders, her silver-white hair stark against the black, worn leather of her armour."   
> -Jaskier's first impression of Geralt in 'Glorious Ballads'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: death and brief panic attack

Jaskier wandered sometimes. They would reach a crossroads and Jaskier would suddenly announce her intentions to take the other turn. Geralt would wake to Jaskier waiting, bags already packed, exhaustion dripping from her shoulders. Jaskier would spend two days practicing songs, loudly declaring to all that would listen that she would win the bardic competition.

Either way, Jaskier would be gone.

But Witchers preferred to travel alone. Time stretched before them long and lonely.

Geralt kept moving, kept working. When she needed to speak, Roach was there to listen. She didn’t miss the sounds of the lute, or the insistent voice demanding information, a break, a bath. She didn’t miss the warm presence at her side, snuggling closer on cold nights. She didn’t worry about her bard. Didn’t mentally list the creatures of her bestiary that lurked along country roads. 

Weeks later Geralt would catch a whiff of her on the wind, the faint strains of a lute. She’d urge Roach onward and Jaskier would be there, smiling and ridiculous. Face full of summer freckles, jewelled hairpieces caught up in her wild hair. A vivid indigo dress or a sunshine yellow, purples and greens showing through the panels of the puff sleeves.

Jaskier would throw her arms wide and sing Geralt’s name. Geralt would roll her eyes at this ridiculous display, and breathe in the sounds and smells of her bard.

Weeks of tension, of straining her senses seeking out this spark that was Jaskier, would fade. Her shoulders would finally relax.

“Miss me, Roach?” Jaskier would ask, quickly pulling her hand away before Roach could snap down on it. “The feeling is entirely mutual you beastly excuse for a horse.”

Then Jaskier would look up and give Geralt one of her beaming smiles, and all would be right in the world again.

….

Geralt was speaking with the alderman and a collection of villagers when she heard it.

Gasping breaths, a heart-pounding frantically.

She was at Jaskier’s side in an instant.

The bard was staring down at the bodies, gaze fixated on the corpse of a young woman.

Geralt rested a hand on the bard’s back, the other on her shoulder. Jaskier always seemed to be seeking out her presence, always happier to lean against Geralt when she could simply stand on her own. Geralt hoped her presence now would be reassuring. She needed it to be reassuring. The bard continued to gasp desperately.

“Breathe Jaskier.” A command and a plea.

The hair of the woman on the ground was a lighter brown, her face too still. But she looked like Jaskier. Geralt shook her head sharply, forcing the image away. This could haunt her later, but not now.

Keeping a steadying hand on Jaskier’s back, Geralt led her away from the dead. Jaskier emptied her stomach into the bushes at the edge of the village, while Geralt carefully held back her hair.

Geralt pulled her further into the woods, away from the cries, the stink and the sorrow.

For all their travelling, Jaskier was still the one that always touched, who eagerly reached for Geralt. But now it was Geralt that wrapped the trembling bard in her arms, pulling her close. She wanted to hold her closer, to wrap Jaskier in her ribcage, to be the barrier between Jaskier and the world. Jaskier sobbed into Geralt’s shoulder, and the sound tore through Geralt.

When the tears faded, Geralt carefully drew Jaskier back, so she could meet the bard’s eyes. She wanted to keep her close, but she had to know that Jaskier was not injured, that it was not something else. Jaskier confirmed her suspicions, her golden voice shaky. A young woman and a boy ripped away too soon. Faces too familiar.

Geralt clasped Jaskier to her chest again. They stayed in this embrace until Jaskier’s heart steadied, until her breath was slow and even.

During Geralt’s debriefing with the group of villagers, one older woman had been a forceful presence. There was sorrow in the lines of her face, but her eyes and chin were firm. She introduced herself as Brygid, her thick arms strong with years of work.

Geralt led Jaskier over to Brygid now.

Geralt knew the look of people. Brygid would not insist, like some of the men, on foolishly accompanying the Witcher. She would remain to keep a steady eye on the village, to be the one to comfort, scold and keep life moving through this sorrow and beyond it. Jaskier needed someone like that now. Someone who brought eight infants to life and six to full adulthood through sheer force of will. With Jaskier safely under the care of the older woman, Geralt set out to fulfill her purpose as a Witcher.

It took several hours to track the creature, but the killing was quick and brutal. Geralt cleaned her silver sword as she walked back to the village and Jaskier. The sun was already beginning to sink deeply in the horizon.

Brygid met Geralt at the door, sweeping her inside into the central room. Through an open door Geralt caught the sight of Jaskier sleeping, tucked under a patchwork quilt.

“It is done?”

Geralt nodded. Brygid didn’t ask how Geralt killed the creature, and Geralt didn’t offer.

Brygid thanked her, and provided water for Geralt to wash. Geralt did so quickly, catching the quiet sounds of Jaskier waking.

“Ready to go?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier smiled softly, taking Geralt’s hand.

That night, as the fire cast dancing shadows across her face, Jaskier spoke of her nightmares. Geralt listened, hands tightening into fists. The bard had been waging a war without her.

Jaskier’s eyes grew heavy with tears as she angrily excused Geralt of seeing her as weak or foolish.

Geralt thought of Jaskier humming a lullaby through her own fear, to comfort the terrified boy in her arms. A pale, weary face managing a smile. Geralt seized these memories, this feeling.

“That doesn’t make you weak. You are much stronger then you think.”

Jaskier was truly crying now, cheeks wet with tears.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt wanted to take the bard back into her arms. To hold her. But the tears sparked by Geralt still lingered on Jaskier’s cheeks, so she simply ushered the bard to bed.

Lying back on her own bedroll, staring up at the stars, Geralt thought back to her earlier words. They had felt true when she said them. They felt even truer now, the longer she lingered with them.

Jaskier offering comfort and protection despite her fear. Jaskier standing up before a room of people, armed only with her lute, and laying bare her soul. Jaskier giving away her energy and love, trusting that her audience would return it. Jaskier vibrating with rage, hurling herself at men twice her size, so full of righteous anger on Geralt’s behalf. Jaskier’s voice sharper than any sword. Jaskier loudly complaining, unafraid to articulate her needs.

How could Jaskier not see her strength?

Geralt could imagine nothing braver than her bard.

When Jaskier gave a soft cry in her sleep, Geralt immediately shifted her bedroll over. She wrapped herself around the bard, until she was the protective barrier between Jaskier’s back and the rest of the world. Jaskier was strong, stronger then she thought.

But Geralt would be there when Jaskier needed her. Even the strong needed someone to lean on.

When Jaskier’s eyes opened, Geralt hummed in a way she hoped was comforting. Jaskier sighed softly, and they both fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did some things with tenses here that hopefully work 
> 
> I just have so many feelings about different ways of expressing strength


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt didn’t think about it.

She didn’t think about the fact that they shared a bed now. That they had begun simply requesting a single bed when they arrived at inns. That she let Jaskier play with her hair. That she reached for Jaskier as soon as the candle was blown out, holding her close.

It was for Jaskier’s nightmares, she told herself. It was simply to ensure the bard was safe if any attacks came in the night. It was for warmth, as the nights grew colder.

These were lies. But Geralt was good at lying to herself.

Geralt didn’t think about the way Jaskier’s fingers lingered, the way her chest felt when Jaskier beamed at her. It was easier that way. Safer.

She could see that the subject burned on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue. The bard wanted to talk about it, to know exactly what they were doing. But Geralt couldn’t. She just couldn’t. And Jaskier, amazingly enough, seemed to respect that.

They kept moving, tracing their way across the Continent. Geralt used her silver and steel swords. Jaskier used her lute and voice. Jaskier began to order hot water in advance for Geralt, ensuring it was ready when she returned filthy and sore. Jaskier kept her own pair of silver scissors, happily brandishing them whenever Geralt complained the hair on the back of her neck was growing too long. And through it all, Jaskier continued to sing songs that boasted of Geralt’s prowess. In ballads thick with flowery language, she demanded respect for her Witcher. She stood before crowds and declared Geralt to be noble, brave, a friend. Her fierce grin dared anyone to disagree. Jaskier’s enraptured listeners seemed to take her passionate messages to heart. Geralt was finding herself at the end of fewer glares. People seemed more willing to meet her eyes. Aldermen seemed quicker to offer the full payment promised.

In one town, the man immediately met Geralt with a firm handshake and a bag full of coin after she successfully rid the local forests of wraiths. As they spoke, his eyes continually slid to Jaskier, who glared from her position behind Geralt’s shoulder. Despite being the shortest in the room, Jaskier was puffed up in all her glory, arms crossed across her chest, a firm set to her chin.

“What was that about?” Geralt asked when they left.

“I didn’t trust him. Thought someone better remind him to treat you properly.”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt. “He was literally twice your size.”

“And your point is?” Jaskier said smartly.

Geralt sighed. She ignored the way her heart beat a little faster at the thought of her bard taking on the world on her behalf.

They began to develop routines. After scrubbing monster guts from her skin, Geralt would return downstairs to the central room. She would find herself a dark corner, and watch Jaskier perform. Now that she had allowed herself to look, she found she couldn’t look away. Jaskier was wondrous, too wondrous to be travelling with a Witcher. Jaskier was beautiful, and Geralt only allowed herself to linger with this thought late at night, after several drinks.

Jaskier was in the middle of a stirring tale of two lost lovers in a large tavern on the outskirts of Cintra when Geralt heard them. Two oily voices, debating the finer points of ‘seducing’ bards. Geralt was out of her seat in an instant.

“If I ever hear you say such words again, I will fucking gut you,” she hissed, blade of her knife pressed against the neck of the louder man. He whimpered and she pressed harder, drawing a line of blood. She could cut it. Jaskier would understand, might even appreciate the gesture.

“Leave before I kill you both,” she growled. The men were actually shaking. They both nodded quickly and hurried out of into the night. Filthy leeches.

Geralt returned to her seat. Jaskier was still singing. She didn’t seem to have noticed the disturbance. But that night Jaskier pulled Geralt closer and whispered a soft thanks in her ear. 

…

Geralt was beginning to realize there were many things she was willing to do for her bard. Looking down at the grey fabric of the gown, Geralt still couldn’t believe that this was one of them. The little squawk Jaskier made when she saw Geralt did help ease some of the tension in Geralt’s shoulders. She wasn’t a woman for dresses. She was a Witcher. But this was one night. And someone had to protect the bard from angry spouses, regardless of the ache she felt at the thought of Jaskier with others.

Jaskier always looked beautiful. But that night she practically glowed. Her golden gown was covered in intricate embroidery, twisting fine patterns down her skirts. The neckline accentuated her elegant neck and the freckles across her chest from a season of travelling on the road. She had placed fine pearl drop earrings in her ears, a small touch of rouge on her lips and cheeks. Half of her hair was twisted up behind her head in swirling braids, pinned in place with a golden hairpiece shaped like flowers. The rest of her wavy hair, freshly washed and shining, was left to ripple down her back.

Geralt wanted to touch Jaskier’s hair. Run her fingers through it.

But she had spent the last two hours hearing Jaskier’s angry huffs as she coaxed her hair into place.

And it wasn’t her place to touch Jaskier. Not without an excuse.

Jaskier swung her lute case over her shoulder and beamed at Geralt.

“Ready?” She asked, practically thrumming with excitement.

Geralt slung her sword over her own shoulder and followed.

As they walked up to the castle Jaskier read out the invitation, grandly annunciating the words. When Jaskier read her full title, Geralt almost stumbled.

“You’re a Viscountess?” she demanded.

Jaskier looked back at her, an incredulous expression on her face. “Geralt, darling I know you are smarter than this. Look at what I’m wearing—what I’ve been wearing since you welcomed me to join you on the road.”

Geralt’s mind stuttered over _darling_. Over the image of Jaskier as a Viscountess. Another reminder of the impossible distance between them.

Geralt’s mouth seemed to move on its own accord, seizing on a churlish reply. “I didn’t welcome you to join me, you forced me to take you along.”

“That is not the point now, Witcher. Do you think most people wear silks for extended road trips in the middle of nowhere?”

Geralt thought of Jaskier’s colourful dresses, the way she wrapped daisies in her hair.

“I thought you just liked pretty things,” grumbled Geralt.

Pretty things. Not scowling Witchers covered in scars.

Mousesack called out to Geralt almost immediately after they entered the room, dashing any of Geralt’s attempts at anonymity. Geralt gladly moved to greet the druid. Her mind was still reeling with everything she had learned, with the knowledge that Jaskier’s sister was also present. She needed a moment apart from the bard. But when she heard Jaskier’s raised voice, Geralt was immediately at her side. It was a delight to watch Jaskier tear her haughty sister apart.

…

Geralt tore out of the castle, into the cool of the night, distantly aware of Jaskier following behind.

This was life doing whatever the fuck it wanted with her. Her mother abandoning her to the Witchers. The Witchers making her a monster, something only good to fight other monsters. Jaskier following her around. Beautiful, sharp and ridiculous. Jaskier singing. Jaskier in her arms. Jaskier the Viscountess. A too bitter reminder of everything she can never have.

And now this. Those cursed, fucking words on her tongue. A child doomed to her, to this life. A child branded, no matter how quickly Geralt ran from this, how far she went.

She didn’t want a child. She didn’t want to be a mother.

They took that choice when they made her.

Her mother took that choice when she left her.

And now this? This was no choice. This was a fucking twist of a screw tightening around her. She wanted to roar until her voice was bloody and raw. Destiny could go fuck itself, but she didn’t need this, this reminder that she was just another pawn. This reminder that no matter what she did, she was only what they made her.

And this child. No one deserved this. No one deserved a Witcher.

Geralt stopped running. It was pointless. Jaskier stopped beside her. Jaskier started to speak but Geralt snarled, pushing past the hurt on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier knew nothing. She couldn’t understand the torrent of thoughts pounding through her. 

Jaskier looked up at her, furious. “Geralt. I am a woman born into Redanian noble house. I spent half my life under the thumb of people like Emira! Like my mother and their expectations! But I was born to be a bard, and that is the fucking destiny I am manifesting.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. She thought of Jaskier, fist posed inches from her sister’s face. Jaskier’s words, denouncing her family. The tears Jaskier angrily blinked away when she told Geralt about her mother.

“Destiny. Expectations. We can only take what we can and make the most of it. Carve something for ourselves!” Jaskier was waving her arms wildly, shouting back at Geralt. 

“I’m not you Jaskier!” Geralt stopped, scowling out at the world. Jaskier didn’t get it. “I’m a Witcher. You can bend the world to your will with a smile and song. I am an emotionless creature created for killing. And this is just another sick twist in my fucking life.”

“Geralt—” said Jaskier, her voice breaking, tears spilling from her blue eyes. “You can’t believe that.”

“What,” snarled Geralt.

“You are not a monster. You have emotions.”

“How would you know!” howled Geralt. Years of travelling and the bard still didn’t get it. This was what they made her. This was what she was.

“I know because you love me!” shouted Jaskier. She took a shuddering breath and continued, “And I love you.”

Jaskier’s words tore through Geralt.

 _You love me_.

Years of watching, of holding Jaskier close. Seeing the way Jaskier watched her. The touches that lingered. The smile just for Geralt. Clearing space in Roach’s saddlebags for Jaskier.

Protecting and being protected.

This was the truth. Had been the truth for too long. But she was so good at telling herself lies.

“Jaskier—”

“Don’t you dare deny it Witcher,” spat Jaskier. Tears were spilling down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away.

“Jaskier.” Geralt didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have the words for this.

“I’m right. Tell me I’m right.”

Geralt had always been better with actions. She reached out and took hold of Jaskier’s dress, pulling her closer, until her bard was almost pressed against her.

“You’re right” she whispered. She couldn’t look at Jaskier. She didn’t need to see Jaskier’s face when she heard this. Who would want this? Who would choose a Witcher to love?

Jaskier set a hand on Geralt’s arm, as if in answer to Geralt’s unspoken questions.

“Kiss me,” she said softly.

Geralt flinched. She still couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“Gods-damn it, Geralt. Kiss me.”

Geralt finally dared to look up. Jaskier’s cheeks were still wet with tears, but her eyes were bright, a determined smile on her lips.

Geralt seized her want, her need, her hunger.

She leaned in, and Jaskier met her halfway.

It was a messy kiss. Wet with tears, loud with the frantic pounding of hearts.

But it was theirs.

…

Jaskier sat up suddenly.

“Geralt. Geralt. I may have actually gotten myself fully disowned last night. Melitele, the things I said to my sister—not that they weren’t all true.”

Geralt looked up blearily, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and groaned. “And I laid claim to a child.”

“Gosh we really are disasters aren’t we?” said Jaskier, collapsing back down on top of Geralt.

“Go back to sleep Jaskier.”

“Jaskier the bardic triumph of the continent, ex-Viscountess of Lettenhove, has a nice ring to it though don’t you think?”

“Jaskier. Sleep.” Geralt’s arm wrapped around Jaskier, pulling her closer and squashing her attempts to sit up again. Jaskier happily surrendered.

“The white wolf’s bard.” Geralt said suddenly, voice soft. “that’s another one of your names.”

“The white wolf’s bard,” said Jaskier, rolling the words on her tongue, testing them out.

“Only—only if you want to.”

“Geralt, darling. I most definitely do.” 

Geralt smiled.

The Path was long. But it was not quiet and lonely anymore.

Jaskier hummed under her breath, snuggling closer.

The road was waiting. But it could wait.

Geralt breathed in the smell of her bard. Her Jaskier.

Nestled among the quilts in a small room in a crowded inn, they fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!   
> There may be more of this one day, as a dear friend of mine has already asked two crucial questions that demand answers: "what happens next?" and "when can they finally share the horse?"   
> In the meantime, I hope you are keeping safe and well.


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